


Figures in Smoke

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awesome Mary Morstan, Consensual Infidelity, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John "Three Continents" Watson, Johnlockary - Freeform, Multi, Oral Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Polyamory, Shameless Smut, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 12:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12342909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: John will never admit it, Sherlock has concluded.No matter what happens, John will never admit to what happened, that night in Port Said.Sherlock, John and Mary learn something about themselves and each other, in the middle of a night with a hooka pipe...





	Figures in Smoke

_Disclaimer:_ This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely likingthistoomuch- Thanks, love. Now enjoy

* * *

**FIGURES AMONGST SMOKE**

* * *

John will never admit it, Sherlock has concluded.

_No matter what happens, John will never admit to what happened, that night in Port Said._

And Sherlock has made his peace with that, he has. Because despite the trials and tribulations of the past year, he is still closer to Dr. John Watson than he is to probably anyone else in the world- _He probably always will be._

_And he will permit nothing in the world to jeopardise that._

For John had showed him that, however black and wizened his heart may be, opening it up to other people is a risk well worth the cost. John had shown him that though he might cock things up terribly, he could count on some people to stick with him through it all. John is his brother, perhaps closer to him than even Mycroft; John is his friend, the first he ever made since he was five years old. John brought Rosie into his life. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. _Mary_.

And John lost Mary because of Sherlock; That, for Sherlock, is a debt which can never be repaid, but one he will spend his whole life trying to make up for.

So no, John need never mention what happened with his wife and his best friend during that last trip before his and Mary’s wedding, Sherlock accepts that. As much as Sherlock loves the memory of that night in Port Said, he knows John well enough to understand that the recollection of it will not thrill him. It will pain him. In fact, it might drive him away forever.

And there is nothing in the world which Sherlock would allow to do that.

 

* * *

 

It had been a joke, at first.

A thing for he and Mary to tease her husband about, when they were waiting for the plane which would get them out of Egypt and away from Moran’s gang.

It started as nudges. Winks. A dig in the side from Mrs. Watson as she insinuated what she had gotten up to the last time she was in Port Said. A snort from Sherlock when he implied that such devilment was tame compared to some of the things he’d done, and some of the people he’d done them with- A certain dominatrix included, though he didn’t share her name.

They’d shared an amused smile and toasted to their (disreputable) pasts, passing the hookah between them.

And as was often the case when Sherlock and Mary were left to their own devices, the conversation had thereafter degenerated into even more of a contest of one-upmanship.

John had listened in stalwart silence, trying for amused but somehow not managing it. _Sherlock hadn’t been surprised._ For all his pre-marital womanising ways, and for all the notches on his bedpost which Sherlock can attest to, John has always been what Irene Adler would call “vanilla,” when it came to his tastes.

_Cocks were for going inside vaginas, as far as he was concerned, and that was that._

_No fannying about with whips or chains or costumes, not for John Watson. No siree-bob._

So hearing Sherlock admit to some of his university indiscretions- once the hookah pipe loosened his tongue, of course- Well, that probably wasn’t John’s idea of a good time. It wasn’t just that he preferred women (as did, in all honesty, Sherlock), it was that the thought of doing anything with a member of his own sex seemed to completely turn John off. Truth be told, Sherlock didn’t understand it: Sex with men was different, but it was pleasurable. Very pleasurable, in point of fact. And John wasn’t homophobic in the least: On more than one occasion the detective had seen him defend friends who were gay, so no, it wasn’t that he was biased, no.

He just didn’t want to try anything himself. He had no curiosity, as Sherlock had, about the possibilities with which human sexuality presented him.

So when Mary had teased him- “How can you know if you’ve never tried it?” - he’d replied tartly that he didn’t need to try drinking petrol to know it wasn’t good for him.

“But darling,” Mary had grinned, “these sorts of adventures are so much more pleasant than swallowing petroll.”

“Are they now?” John had retorted, his arms crossed primly over his chest.

The sense of a line being drawn in the sand was suddenly palpable.

“He’s cute when he’s like this, isn’t he?” Mary had grinned at Sherlock, rather than answer. It didn’t soothe her fiance in the slightest. “Don’t you just adore when he gets all stiff-upper-lip and manly like this-”

A sort of devilment sparked in her eyes and suddenly she was a great deal closer to Sherlock than she’d been even a moment ago.

As always when Mary was near him, his heart beat a little faster than it normally would.

“Shall we show him what he’s missing?” she’d purred, licking her lips, laughter dancing in her gaze as she moved ever closer to him. “Shall we give him a show, darling?”

And before Sherlock could answer, Mary- _his wonderful, funny, entirely out-of-bounds girl Mary_ \- had leaned over and pressed a kiss to his mouth.

Her lips were soft.

Warm.

Daring.

Welcome.

By the time Sherlock’s brain had caught up to what she was doing, he had already started to kiss her back.

It was intense, as kissing always was for him. Wet and hot and familiar, two beings breathing the same air and trying to take up the same space. Her fingers raked his chest, curled in his hair. The heat of her was like a furnace, her movements teasing. Enticing. _Wicked_ . She tasted of honey and apple and just a tiny bit of the cannabis in the pipe, though Sherlock pretended not to notice _that._ She tasted of things he’d thought about ever since he’d met her, things he’d told himself he’d never admit to anyone-

In short, as was always the case for Sherlock, she tasted of everything he wanted but told himself he couldn’t have- _He could never,_ **_ever_ ** _have something this wonderful…_

_Which was, of course, why he wanted her so badly._

The shock as he thought that was palpable, and he fancied Mary felt his reaction for she pulled back. Looked at him askance. “You ok?” she asked, and though this should have been the perfect opportunity to pull away Sherlock shook his head. Dived in and kissed her again before he could stop himself, his grip on her tightening even as she tugged more sharply on his hair and moaned into his mouth.

The delight of her reciprocation was heady; The pleasure of it too. Growing more accustomed to it, Sherlock opened his mouth, heat jolting through him as he did so and without hesitation Mary’s tongue slid deftly in and started gliding over his own, over and over again. She nipped at his lower lip and then sucked sweetly on his tongue when it chased hers back into her mouth- _It felt so fucking good that Sherlock didn’t want to stop_ \-  

But he did have to stop; even the great Sherlock Holmes had to breathe. Mary was all the way into his lap by now, her arms around his neck, the heat of her body pressing in on his.

Sherlock’s cock was also becoming hard with the feel of her and in his hookah-slowed brain he couldn’t quite conjure why this felt so… unusual. So wary. _Why was he going slowly with this again?_

With a gasp he pulled away only to see her smile at him before turning to her fiance. Grinning at him cheekily.   

“Are you trying to tell me that wasn’t fun?” she asked John archly, eyes twinkling. “Or are you finally brave enough to find out for yourself, eh?” She pressed a soft, affection kiss to Sherlock’s temple. “Trust me, Sherlock,” she purred, “John’s not nearly so much of a stick-in-the-mud as he’s making out tonight- Are you, darling?”

And her gaze dropped to her husband’s lap.

To Sherlock’s amazement, he could see that his friend’s trousers tenting slightly, the evidence of his arousal undeniable.

At seeing where his gaze had gone, John shifted uncomfortably, placed a cushion across his crotch even as Mary let out a devilishly seductive little laugh.

“That was just play-acting, Mary,” John said stiffly. “I never meant that you would actually-”

“Didn’t you?” Mary had spoken over him, not a trace of contrition in her voice. “Didn’t you once tell me the thought of watching me and our boy here together made you all sorts of hot and bothered, hmm?”

And before he can say anything, Mary kissed Sherlock again. Slipped her arms around him again. John reddened, opened his mouth- _to explain?_ Sherlock wonders, _to apologize?_ \- but rather than let him speak Mary broke away from Sherlock. Reached over. Yanked her fiance to her by the front of his shirt and, still ensconced in his best friend’s lap, pulled him close and kissed him, her hands toying in his hair, her hips pressing into Sherlock’s even as she kissed another man- _Even as she made that other man whine in arousal_ -

It was the most gorgeous thing Sherlock had ever seen.

The nearness and heat of she and John filled up Holmes’ senses, made him feel overwhelmed, almost. The soft, wet sounds of their kissing made his cock ache and twitch, his nails gripping into his palms with the urge to join in. To touch them. To become part of this thing between them- _Wasn’t he already a part of it,_ his mind whispered, _whether he joined them in bed or not-?_

So, his head spinning from the sight before him and the pipe-smoke, Sherlock reached over and, as soon as Mary was free, he kissed her again, his hands sliding possessively over her back to grip her backside. Dig his nails in.

She let out a lewd, gorgeous little moan and kissed him back, her eyes twinkling as she pulled back to catch her breath and stare at him.

The fingers of one hand tangled in the hair at his nape even as her other reached down to massage John through his trousers. The shorter man grunted at the feel of it, his hands digging into the fabric of the couch beside him but otherwise doing nothing to stop what she was at. In fact, he started pumping his hips against her hand, his lips drawn back from his teeth and his breath hissing sharply-

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mary,” he moaned, “fuck, fuck, fuck that feels fucking good, love....”

At the words Mary gave another, wicked laugh, winking at Sherlock. Redoubling her efforts. No longer content to be led, Sherlock leaned over and pressed his own hand to John’s cock, his longer fingers easily opening his fly and reaching within to massage him through his boxers. _To show him just what masterbutory skills one might acquire when one has a cock of one’s own with which to play_.

With a throaty laugh Mary kissed his temple again- “Good boy,”- and began unbuttoning his trousers, her left hand sliding inside to wrap around Sherlock’s bare cock even as she spread her thighs and writhed against his knee, her pleasure at the pressure a beautiful thing to behold-

Her own hand found her mound, pressing sharply against it, and as if on purpose all three of them gave a long, satisfied sigh in unison.

“Are we actually doing this..?” John asked faintly, his tone almost disbelieving in the stillness which hung between them.

“Of course we fucking are, darling,” Mary muttered and it went from there.  

For there were kisses. Caresses. Grunts and moans. The sweet, wet slap of flesh against flesh.

The hissing thrill of licking. Biting. Tongues. Pinching fingers and writhing hips.

Time seemed to halt at John’s words, then to sputter into vastness. Suddenly the universe was no longer made of narrative and cause and effect, but a series of flashes, sparks of experience which dazzled but no more seemed strung together than the stars in the night sky. Sherlock could feel John’s hips pressing feverishly against his ministrations, the doctor’s hands sliding up Mary’s skirt to knead and massage her cunt, his fingers joining in with hers. Playing her. Teasing her. They were both kissing Sherlock and each other, and though they should each have been embarrassed, it seemed the most reasonable thing in the world-

_Pleasure such as this,_ Sherlock found himself thinking dazedly, _should be everybody’s due._

Eventually, Mary gave a hiss of frustration and tugged off her knickers, her dress pulled over her head with Sherlock’s help. Her bare breasts cupped by her own hands, John continued to massage and play with her cunt.

With a moan she manoeuvred in Sherlock’s lap, reaching down and roughly pulling his trousers down and off- He raised his arse to help her, John taking her weight as he did. Once the trousers were away Mary smiled and took Sherlock in hand. Pumped his prick once, twice, and then spread her knees wantonly. Sank down on his cock with a delicious, satisfied sigh until he was deep inside her, his balls snug against the cheeks of her arse, her shoulder-blades pressing insistently against his chest as she leaned back into him.

_Sherlock let out a string of the most colourful swear words he could conjure, it felt so bloody good._

She looked up at John- “You know what I want, love,” she said huskily- and to Sherlock’s surprise John nodded. Reached forward and gripped the back of her neck, his other hand bracing himself on the wall behind her and Sherlock’s heads.  

“Just like we talked about?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Exactly like we talked about, darling,” she murmured. She turned her head as far as she could to look at Sherlock. Press a kiss to his jaw. “Fuck me, sweetheart,” she murmured, “fuck me while I fuck him-

Fuck us both together, I know it’s what we’ve always wanted-”

And to Sherlock’s astonishment, he saw John reach out, hook Mary’s mouth open. He slid two fingers inside- _Mary hollowed her cheeks, suckling them_ \- and then tugged his cock sharply, once, twice, before pulling his fiancee’s’s head forward and sliding himself in between herlips.

_Oh,_ Sherlock thought. _Oh, Christ._

Keeping a strong grip on her head, his eyes met Sherlock’s and at his nod they both grunted and bucked, John’s cock pressing into Mary’s mouth, Sherlock’s cock pressing into Mary’s cunt. Mary let out a wanton, hoarse moan in her throat, taking her fiance deeper, and that was all the encouragement each man needed to let all Hell break loose.

For, keeping eye contact, both found their rhythm and stuck to it. They pushed and drove into her until she was shuddering in pleasure at their pace. It didn’t take much: within moments they had their girl losing control. Bucking and thrashing in Sherlock’s lap, hollowing her cheeks and bobbing her head as she tried to continue sucking John’s prick through her orgasm. It was impossible, of course: eventually she had to pull back, a moan escaping her throat as her climax arrived- “Yes, yes,” she screamed, “Oh please, fuck yes…”

Sherlock watched her come, his hands kneading and squeezing her breasts tightly as she panted in his lap. His hips pistoning into her, so hard they were both nearly coming off the chair.

He didn’t know if it was the sound of her climax or the sight of him inside his fiancee, but John seemed to lose all control too, white spurting out of his cock to spatter on both Mary’s chest and Sherlock’s fingers, the feel of it wet and filthy and good and so fucking arousing-

“Oh sweet mother of fucking Christ,” John moaned, his head dropping, his breath coming like a locomotive-

“Next time,” Mary gasped against Sherlock’s cheek, “next time you’ll get to suck him off, and I’ll get to fuck you both…”

She took in a deep, shuddering breath.

“Fuck me,” she murmured, “Just the thought of that’s going to make me wet for days…”

And she collapsed against him, the energy gone out of her. Whether it was the words, the mental image they conjured, or the pleasure of the last few moments, Sherlock felt it go through him. Lust. Pleasure. A tidal-wave of satisfaction that lifted up through him and erupted inside his friend until he was coming and coming, so hard he thought it might never end….

She held him through it, cooing tiredly about how gorgeous and filthy he looked when he was doing it. How much of a turn on she found it. By the time he opened his eyes however- _when had he closed them?_ \- John had already run for the safety of the bathroom, leaving Sherlock and Mary alone.

Sherlock looked at her, his frown, he knew, worried, but she merely shook her head at him.

“I’ll talk him ‘round,” she said. “Don’t you worry…”

And with that she’d curled up in Sherlock’s lap and promptly fallen asleep.

He hadn’t wanted to join her, but he soon had.

 

* * *

The Morning After had been awkward, as Sherlock might have known it would be.  

They’d been roused at the crack of dawn by Mycroft’s boys, led by Anthea, who had pointedly ignored where she found the future Mrs. John Watson and merely informed Sherlock that his ride was waiting.

Sherlock had inwardly sworn, knowing that anything Anthea saw his brother would know.

But there was no help for it: He couldn’t- wouldn’t- explain things. And as he, Mary and John had prepared to leave the doctor had let it be known- suspiciously loudly- that he couldn’t remember a thing about last night, but that he was never touching either whiskey or shisha again.

“Too much of a headache,” he’d said, and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder whether that was a metaphor.

“I can see what you mean,” Anthea had said faintly, but for once John seemed utterly uninterested in what Mycroft’s mysterious Girl Friday had to say.

Mary had stared hard at her fiance as he said this but hadn’t commented; she was unlikely to, after all, with Mycroft’s boys about.

And for all her reassurances, neither she nor John ever mentioned it again.Not after the wedding. Not even before. Not during any of their adventures, and certainly not in those last, precious, globe-trotting months of her life-

_Sometimes Sherlock is tempted to believe that he imagined it._

But it’s a strange thing to note- and strangers often do- that, despite having two very blond parents, Rosie Watson has a head of thick, dark curls just like her Uncle Sherlock.  

It’s a strange thing to note that, just as her mother had always wanted, people often assume that Sherlock is part of John’s family, though they don’t know how.

At times, when he’s lying in bed and missing his friend, Sherlock wishes that there had been more nights like that in Port Said, just as he wishes there had been more time with Mary to explain his desire for them-

Unfortunately, though, that past is a foreign country, one John Watson (he knows) will never venture near.

****  



End file.
